


People bring the rain, Honey you ease the pain

by PrintPulse



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Kindness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 14:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13503522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrintPulse/pseuds/PrintPulse
Summary: Chanyeol had never had someone to hold his unruly hair back when he emptied the contents of his stomach into a toilet bowl. He didn’t have them when he was younger, and he doesn’t have them now. ‘Now’ is Chanyeol gripping the edges of a dirty porcelain rim in a just-as-dirty club bathroom.





	People bring the rain, Honey you ease the pain

**Author's Note:**

> An old fic hauled over from my LJ!

 

  
_Being sick is different. Being sick means asking someone to hold your hair back when you vomit. Either love me with vomit in my hair or don’t love me at all. – Ryan O’Connell_  
  
Chanyeol had never had someone to hold his unruly hair back when he emptied the contents of his stomach into a toilet bowl. He didn’t have them when he was younger, and he doesn’t have them now. ‘Now’ is Chanyeol gripping the edges of a dirty porcelain rim in a just-as-dirty club bathroom. He came to get drunk and get drunk he did; the thrumming base pounding his skull while the room bubbled out of focus.  
  
His Mother never held his hair back when he was sick as a child, partly because there was no hair to hold back (His hair had been a buzz cut) and partly because she wasn’t that type of woman. Chanyeol had no doubt that his Mother loved him, but she certainly wasn’t the hold-your-hair-back-while-you-are-sick type.   
  
He didn’t know his Father, but he doesn’t suppose he would be the type either, to have married a woman like his Mother.  
  
The friendships he had made throughout school were pleasant enough, but he understands none of those would equate to that. They would play video games and moan about class, but the friendships he cultivated were not on the level of companionship that could boast that sort of intimacy. Perhaps this is a sign that Chanyeol’s relationships aren’t as solid as he thinks they are; perhaps it explains the gnawing loneliness that gurgles on his in insides at 3am, when pizza crusts litter his bed covers and the light from his laptop tangles in his tears. Or, perhaps, it is a sign that he should cut his hair.  
  
Chanyeol doesn’t know, and he certainly doesn’t know in his current addled state.  
  
So he simply mouths against the cool toilet, groaning at the tides of nausea that ebb and flow. He stomach lurches once more, and Chanyeol laments his life choices as more of his stomach hits his curls than anywhere else.   
  
That is, until long, gentle fingers tangle in his locks, pulling them neatly out of the way. Chanyeol startles, but his stomach protests once more and his mind shifts to that instead.  
  
“Jesus,” the owner of the elegant fingers sympathies, “rough night.”  
  
Chanyeol opens his mouth to answer, but it’s not words he coughs out. The hand runs soothing circles on his back, the other still tangled in his unruly hair.  
  
When his stomach calms a little , Chanyeol waves his hand in thanks and places his forehead back against the now-clammy porcelain.   
  
“Um.”  
  
The voice behind him hums in response, pulling some tissue from the roll and exiting the cubicle. Chanyeol hears the tap gushing, the pipes squeaking and groaning, before fingers fall back in his hair.  
  
“Wha-?”  
  
“We can’t leave your hair like this can we?” The voice murmurs, tissue dabbing at his limp locks. There is a beat of silence, in which Chanyeol wonders what the hell going on? before a more hesitant sentence echoes around the stall.  
  
“Did you…come here alone?”   
  
Chanyeol blinks. The question should sound creepy, but there is more concern in the voice than anything else.  
  
“I, uh,” he clears his throat, squinting at the fog in his head and the gentle hands at the base of his scalp, “not alone but not really with friends either. Just with,” Chanyeol splays his hands in exasperation against the toilet rim, “people.”  
  
The voice huffs a breathy laugh, and Chanyeol can feel warm breath on his neck, "Yeah, I came with people too. People suck .”  
  
Chanyeol snorts, and pries himself unsteadily from the toilet after a while. The hands in his hair still then withdraw completely.   
“People let you vomit in a bathroom alone.” Chanyeol says, trying to stop his heavy tongue from weighing his words down.  
  
“Fuck people.” The voice exclaims, before rancorous laughter fills the bathroom. “C’mon.”  
  
Slender hands hook under his armpit and Chanyeol braces his hands against the rim as they heave him up. He stumbles a little when the hands release him, blinking and disoriented in the fluorescent light before following the sound of running water out of the cubicle.   
  
He sees dark brown hair reflected in the mirror, the figure’s head bent low and face concealed as he washes his hands vigorously.  
  
Chanyeol follows suit, swaying a little on his way to wash his hands, too. He lathers the soap, lemon wafting to his nostrils, before rinsing his hands and drying the haphazardly on his jeans. When he looks up, it is into eyes lined heavily in midnight black.  
  
The figure before him is pretty and handsome and maybe a little perfect with his little nose and bowed lips and is that glitter in his hair? Chanyeol flushes; he is more than a little embarrassed that he let him clean the sick out of his hair.  
  
The figure only smiles in response and Chanyeol’s heart does some weird clenchy thing in his chest… Only, maybe it could his stomach protesting at the sudden movement.  
  
“Do you, uh, do you want to go get some coffee?” The man suggests, before frowning a little, “or some water?” The man looks determined, and the bemusement of the situation is reflected on both their faces. “I’m kind of bored of this place.”  
  
“Will there be people?”  
  
The man laughs, and his eyes scrunch up in amusement.   
  
“Fuck people.”


End file.
